


How Could I Not?

by rookmyfanwy



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookmyfanwy/pseuds/rookmyfanwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between their first meeting and being shouted out of the room, Emma fell in love. </p><p>It couldn't be more inconvenient.</p><p>AU: Victorian/Edwardian Age Swan Queen. Love and lust. Also, a few apples make guest appearances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is turning out to be a beast and the fluffiest thing I have written. Ever. Also, I am taking historical liberties here. They aren't gigantic, but they are there. Don't get mad at me for them. I'm not a historian.
> 
> This is loosely related to [ The Weight of Our Demons ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112984), but it can certainly be read alone. The two stories are like step-cousins twice removed.

“ _What do you want to remember?” he asks with a sad smile._

“ _The good times,” she replies._

_He hastily grabs a fountain pen and some paper, settling into the armchair by her bed._

“ _Where do you want to start?”_

“ _The beginning. Undoubtedly.”_

_Dipping his pen in the ink, they begin._

**16 May, 1898**  

In the crowded non-smoking carriage of a New York bound train, an annoyed Emma Swan stews for two particular reasons.

The first being a portly man across the aisle who is entirely too focused on her attire to be considered idly interested. She had had little time to change for her venture to Ithaca, and had opted for a loose fitting shirt to accompany her trousers. Clearly, this man is taking advantage of the breeze a cracked window provides.

The second source of her irritation is a bit less present.

She works as a lab assistant to the illustrious Nikola Tesla. As a prolific inventor, he has the nasty habit of attracting curious colleagues from all reaches of the Earth. The most recent tourist was one Killian Jones. Somewhat of a rising star at Cornell University, Killian was also notorious for his activities outside of the classroom and in the bedroom. Upon his arrival at Nikola's workshop, he had been instantly attracted to Emma. 

Emma had been instantly repulsed. 

What was most distressing was that she had fancied him, once. Jones appeared at a few of Tesla's more flamboyant press parties. He had always seemed charming and handsome- the kind of man you daydream about on cloudy days. 

As with most idols, Emma found her mental image of the man had been entirely rose-colored. She spent the entirety of his week long stay dodging his inappropriate questions and lascivious comments. She was more than grateful to leave him at the Ithaca train station. 

The man across from her is much too similar to Mr. Jones for her comfort. 

It takes approximately five minutes of additional gawking for her to decide that enough is enough. 

“I do hope your wife is unaware of your lewd behavior, sir. Otherwise, you might swiftly find yourself a divorced man,” Emma snaps sharply, both eyes narrowed in challenge. 

The lech starts and flushes. His ringed hand darts into his frock coat and pulls out a handkerchief. 

“I was merely marveling at your outfit choice, Miss,” he replies lamely, dabbing his forehead. He rather reminds Emma of a hippopotamus. “It is unusual to see a woman such as yourself wearing man's clothes.” 

“Isn't it also unusual to wear a formal coat so early in the morning? Surely you aren't going to drink before noon?” she caustically retorts. 

He shuffles in his seat indignantly. “Any man worth his salt should dress like a gentleman!” 

“A man who dresses like a pauper and acts with dignity is undoubtedly more gentlemanly than a man who dresses like a king and acts like a twit. The wardrobe does not make the man.” 

His responding huff is drowned out by the call for the New York station. Emma takes the opportunity to stand and move toward the exit. 

She can hear him grumbling as she walks by. 

“Absolutely indecent! Women these days... Ungrateful! Men's pants..."

Rolling her eyes, she braces herself as the train slows. She's never understood the stares she gets when wearing trousers. Moving around the laboratory is exceptionally difficult in a petticoat. 

When the train comes to a complete stop, she jumps out and takes a deep breath of fresh air. People flit around the station, entirely too busy for conversation. Businessmen tip their hats at friends, parents uneasily watch their children play, and beggars grovel for money.

Emma lets the familiarity wash over her. 

An angry “Miss!” emerges above the rabble. Turning her head, she sees the blustering dunce from earlier attempting to waddle down the exit after her.

 Taking one last look around the station, she bolts. 

 

* * *

 

She walks into the lab twenty minutes later with a gigantic smile. For a Monday, it is incredible outside. The blue sky almost seems to wave farewell. 

“Crane!” a harried voice calls when she is fully in the building. 

Sighing in mock irritation, Emma strides past the half finished projects toward the voice. Her foot catches on a loose wire and she stumbles. 

“Don't touch that!” 

Rolling her eyes, Emma carefully picks her way toward the feet sticking out from beneath a large metal conductor. “Still trying to work out the coil, Doctor?” 

“Hmph. You know I never got my doctorate!” Nikola scoffs. 

“And _you_ know my name isn't 'Crane,'” Emma tosses back. 

“It's something bird related. I'm not a biologist!” 

“We've been working together for a year. Surely you know my name by now?” 

Something sparks. “Govno!” 

“Everything alright?” Emma crouches to better see the inventor. All she can make out is a flurry of arm movement. 

“Fine, fine! The duke who borrowed this coil had someone try to work on it. The couplings are all wrong.” 

“Do you need anything?” 

He hums dismissively, so Emma moves from the mess to her work table. The contraption she is working on lays unfinished. Nikola had given her a set of written notes to follow. He promised if she could finish building this circuit controller, he would look at some of her ideas. 

“Pidgeon!” he exclaims suddenly. 

Emma just chuckles and looks at the instructions. “Nope!” 

“Hm.” 

“We go through this every week, Mister Tesla,” she laughs, picking up a screwdriver. 

“And every time I tell you to call me Nikola!” There's a slight clatter. “Mpphf fffmnp swmpn!” 

“...What?” 

Nikola clears his throat awkwardly, “I said, 'I know it's Swan!' The pliers must have muffled me.” 

“No kidding,” she replies sarcastically, setting the motor in place. 

They work in silence for some time. Emma spends most the quiet time trying to decipher one of Nikola's scribbled notes. It looks like it's written in Serbian, and yet she clearly sees the word 'transistor.' His instructions are usually easy to follow, but this one has been marked out multiple times. Words litter the margin, numerous and cramped. 

“How was our friend, Killian?” the inventor queries abruptly. 

She sighs, “Absolutely distraught to be leaving you. I think he might have even cried a little.” 

“Shame, he was such an entertaining man. Quite the conversationalist. He was always going on about the ladies at his college.” Nikola laughs at some inside joke. “I must say he was very interested in you.” 

“Understatement,” Emma mutters under her breath. 

Nikola continues, unaware of her comment, “He asked about your family- about which I said nothing, I would never be so rude- your favorite food, your projects,” he lists, each item punctuated by the twist of a wrench. “I suspect he may want to court you.” 

“The only thing he wants to court is my bed,” she says, exasperated. Surely he didn't support Killian in his efforts. “Tell me you told him nothing, Nikola.” 

“Not a word, Emma.” His smile is almost audible. There's a scuffle as he gets out from under the contraption. 

She laughs, squinting at the paper again. “Nikola, what exactly does this say?” 

Silence is her only reply. 

Turning around, she sees him standing next to the coil. His hair is wild and his eyes are bright. One hand covers his mouth as he murmurs something in Serbian. 

“Nikola?” she ventures softly. “Are you feeling alright?” 

He appears to ignore her. She sets the transcript down and slips off of the stool. 

“Nikola?” she whispers again, placing a hand on his bicep. 

He starts sharply. Suddenly he grins at her, eyes both looking at her and through her. “It's wonderful! It's beautiful! Magnificent!” 

“What is?” Emma asks, perplexed. 

Giving her a funny look, he elaborates, “To control things from a distance! Without wires! Can you imagine? The distances we could reach! To može biti.” 

“You've lost me,” Emma replies flatly. Sometimes Tesla went into ramblings that were far beyond her. The brilliance of the rants were obvious, but she simply couldn't understand. 

“Oh, Emma! Will you do something for me?” he beseeches. His large hands grasp her shoulders amicably. 

“Anything, you know that.” she notes. 

“I've been struck by a vision! During these times it is most helpful to be alone. Would you hate me terribly if I asked you to deliver those patents? Perhaps you could observe the wondrous day on your way there and back?” he implores. 

Emma knows better than to take this personally. She has witnessed such inspiration only once before. It had led to the construction of a most complex current converter. “Of course, Nikola. Whatever you need.”

 “Thank you, my dear! This is wondrous indeed, indeed!” He proclaims, skipping over to his office.

 Emma shakes her head at the jovial laughs she hears.

  _Another day in the life,_ she thinks.

 Walking over to the writing desk, she picks up the three applications for three electric circuit controllers; of which she had personally helped with two.

 She grabs a small satchel and places the applications into it, heading out of the door. It would be absolutely delightful to walk in the beautiful sunshine. The patent office was several blocks away, offering her ample opportunity to soak up the sun.

 It will probably take an hour to get to the office. Since it is midday, she decides to stop by her favorite market and see Granny, the local produce seller and chef extraordinaire. They chat about the day and her sales for a bit, and Emma buys a red delicious apple. She's munching on it happily when she hears her name.

 “Emma!” the young brunette calls, rushing toward her. She's wearing a daringly risque red dress. The collar dips incredibly low, and her short sleeves add to the uncovered effect. It's so quintessentially Rubythat Emma has to smile.

 “Ruby! How are you?”

 “I'm wonderful!” she responds with a wolfish smile, “Where have you been?”

 “At the lab,” Emma replies, confused. “Where else would I be?”

 “I thought you might have eloped with Mister Killian Jones. He was oh so handsome walking through here two days ago.”

 Emma has to contain a groan. “I still can't believe I brought him to the market.”

 Ruby chuckles. “Was he just as dreamy as you imagined? If I recall correctly, he was the one you were doodling about in your notebook. Did he have a hook for a hand like your drawing?”

 Emma's face flames. “Ruby please-”

 “Bad boys are so attractive. Pirates are the baddest of them all. Although, I'm sure he's not bad in bed-”

 “He was a privateer. There's a difference.”

 “A privateer? I didn't see the Union Jack on that ship. And no respectable privateer wears black leather.”

 Emma sees Granny doubling over in laughter. She wishes the ground would swallow her whole. “I can't believe you right now.”

 “You know I'm only teasing!” She winks grandly, grasping one of Emma's arms. “Now, honestly, tell me about Killian.”

 “Well... he was devilishly handsome...” Emma begins reluctantly, walking them to the next vendor and away from Granny's guffaws.

 “And?”

 She lets out an amused sigh at Ruby's eagerness. Picking up a vibrant purple fruit, she muses, “If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were starved for the company of men. Hoping to live vicariously through me and all that.”

 Ruby scoffs. “Suitors are not what I need. I just want to see you married off and happy.”

 “And _why_ do I have to get married to be happy?” Emma asks.

 “Oh, come on. Don't go gun-ho suffragette on me. I just think everyone needs somebody! Being lonely is no fun.” Ruby emphasizes this by hopping in place like a child.

 “I have plenty of fun! My _work_ is fun!”

 “Right. Because screwing in bolts is thrilling. Getting regularly zapped is a joy. When you're getting screwed and zapped by a man, however...” Ruby waggles her eyebrows comically.

 Emma delicately turns to set down the apple, debating internally whether she should share her annoying weekend.

 “Fine,” Emma concedes eventually. “When we met, he was wearing the most flattering black pinstriped suit...”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Emma is finally at the patent office. She had regaled Ruby with an... embellished account of events. So what if Killian hadn't dramatically caught her after she tripped over a wire? 

Emma subconsciously smiles as she walks into the building, remembering Ruby's eager questions. In her haze, she nearly runs into another woman.

 Muttering an apology, she moves to the reception desk. That is also the processing desk. That is manned by her good friend August Booth, an aspiring writer. Emma would know- delivering Tesla's numerous ideas for the past year has made her a regular. She's been here at _least_ twenty times, and considers herself quite familiar with the office and it's occupants- mahogany or otherwise.

 Which is why she is shocked into silence by the distinctively different person sitting at the desk.

  _Woman._ Emma amends mentally, taking in the low cut of the dress. _That is a most distinctively a woman._

 The aforementioned lady is too engrossed in the form she is filling out to notice Emma's gawping.

 “Where is August?” she blurts after a few precious moments of decidedly untoward staring.

 To her credit, the brunette doesn't even start. Her eyes - _brown,_ Emma notes- flick up. They scan Emma apathetically, evaluating her like a loaf of bread you are thinking about purchasing. Checking for mold, perhaps?

 “Gone on an extended vacation,” she replies curtly, setting her pen down. “I am to be his replacement for the foreseeable future.”

 “Ah,” Emma offers eloquently. “How long will he be gone?”

 There's a sigh. The woman slows her speech, talking like you would to a small child. “I'm not sure. He departed rather abruptly. I was called in from Philadelphia to take over his duties.”

 “I see.”

 Emma takes the momentary pause to gather her wits.

 “Is there something I can help you with, or are you just going to ask pointless questions all day?” the brunette snaps impatiently.

 “Uh, yes, actually! I have business I need attended to,” Emma clarifies. She rifles through her satchel and retrieves the papers, slapping them down on the desk.

 “And what is this?” the brunette scoffs.

 Emma's brow furrows, “I believe they are called patent applications. Typically given to offices similar to this one, in order to be evaluated on their merits and approved or rejected. I'm hoping you can help me, Miss...?”

 “Mills. Regina Mills.”

 “Well then, Regina. May I call you Regina?”

 “No, you certainly may not.”

 “As you wish.”

 “I do wish.” Regina's face is a steel mask.

 “Certainly...” Emma hesitates, perturbed by this strange exchange.

 Despite Regina's narrowed eyes, Emma convinces herself to continue in her endeavor. Nikola needs these patents delivered, and she plans to do it with her usual aplomb. Regardless of the less than receptive audience in front of her.

 “Miss Mills,” she begins, ready to sell the idea for approval. August had always been fond of stories. Emma has always been a believer in sticking with what works. “Here are three patents for three models of circuit controllers. Really fabulous inventions, I must say. So wondrous that I believe they will change the-”

Regina cuts her off with a wave. “Save it. As entertaining as that drivel must be, I have neither the time nor the patience to hear it.”

The blonde snaps her mouth shut. “But...”

 Another long winded sigh. “Just leave the applications. I'll look over them and- provided they are actually useful and improve society- will send them in for approval from the head office. If all goes well, you should have your response in six months.”

 “Six months? That's...”

 “Undoubtedly slower than what you've experienced, I'm sure. It would appear Mr. Booth had neglected important regulations.” Regina shuffles the papers into a neat pile. Emma watches the precision with which she moves, looking more like a royal than a government employee.

 “I had no idea. I bring what Nikola asks me to,” Emma responds dumbly.

 The brunette offers a tight smile. “I'm sure. Now, Miss...”

 “Swan. But you may call me Emma.”

 “Miss Swan,” Regina replies testily, “I have other patents to read and send. Have you sufficiently wasted my time?”

 All at once annoyance floods Emma. It has been too good of a day to have this woman ruin it. This Regina Mills seems to suck the light right out of the sky.

 “Hardly,” she retorts. “You'll be seeing a lot more of me in the future. I expect I'll have wasted weeks of your time before six months have passed.”

 Regina looks back to the form she was filling out, picking up the pen. “Good day, Miss Swan.”

 “Good day, _Regina_ ,” Emma spits, unable to resist a last minute dig. She turns quickly on her heel and storms out of the building, away from the infuriating woman.

 It would be apropos if the sun was suddenly blotted out by clouds, but instead it shines cheerily on. Unfortunately, Emma's cloud is purely metaphorical. Her sour mood follows her the mile it takes to get to her favorite park bench.

 The bench in question is Emma's favorite spot in the whole city. It overlooks the rest of the park, and the trees across the spacious field almost block out the urban sprawl of New York. She huffs upon reaching it, plopping down on it hard enough to rattle her teeth.

 For a few minutes, she lets herself stew on her thoroughly justified anger. There's only a kid and a dog in the park, and they aren't nearly enough to distract Emma from her irritation.

 She had done nothing to provoke the woman! Well, nothing really deserving of that reaction.

  _Maybe asking 'Miss Mills' where August was was a bit rude..._ Emma mentally concedes. _But the behavior was still unwarranted!_

 Emma thinks that perhaps she wouldn't be so upset if she weren't so disappointed by Regina's reaction to her. Seeing the woman had shocked her, but she was also excited by the idea of a new friend. Emma only really knew Ruby, Granny, August, and Nikola. With two of her closest relationships being work related, Emma was always eager to meet new people. During those few seconds of observation, the woman's pretty face had seemed approachable- if not compassionate. Yet, when she locked eyes with Emma, the blonde saw nothing but confusion and annoyance.

 That is the only reason that the anger in her chest cools into disappointment in her gut. At least, that's what she tells herself.

 Which is why Emma begins to plan. She mulls over her options, watching the boy across the field start to play fetch with the dog. He fakes a throw left and then throws right. The dog is momentarily confused, until the boy laughs and points in the direction of the stick. Barking happily, the dog bounds over to the stick the kid threw, picking it up and running back to him.

 Inspired by the child's playful antics, Emma decides to call this plan “Operation Labrador.” A slow smile spreads across her face as she watches the boy drop down to pat the dog on the head.

 Regina Mills would rue the day she met Emma Swan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prelude to _tons_ of SQ interaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I've had the most hectic schedule. Now that things have calmed down, updates should come more regularly.

**19 May, 1898**

 

Thursday arrives with little pomp and circumstance. Emma spends the intervening days toiling away at Tesla's project, feeling as if she is making great advances and firmly going nowhere at all. Every day she goes home itching to continue working, keenly aware that finishing this project will allow her to introduce her own ideas.

 As she bends over her current obsession, Emma can feel droplets of sweat run down her back. The sun had fled sometime Wednesday afternoon, being replaced by low hanging clouds. The air is hot and heavy with moisture and there's no breeze in the lab despite every window being open.

 It makes Emma irritated and restless. The current mess of her hair doesn't help, since it falls in front her face at the most delicate parts of the procedure. Working while angry is never a good idea, especially when she's splicing wires with a knife.

 A cool bead of sweat rolls between her shoulder blades and the following shudder makes her hand slip, the knife nicking her left thumb. Pain shoots through her arm and she drops the knife with a clatter.

 “Damn it!” she cries out in frustration. She sucks on the throbbing digit, murmuring curses.

 A shock of black hair pops out from Nikola's office door.

 “Are you alright?” the inventor queries halfheartedly. His eyes dart quickly to the life-altering-who-knows-what and back.

 Removing her thumb from her mouth, she replies, “I'm fine. You can go back to being brilliant.”

 Nikola nods minutely, already totally refocused on his invention. His head disappears and Emma can hear the faintest clinks of metal against metal.

 Emma turns back to the controller, groaning in frustration. She smacks her injured hand against the table. A flare of pain radiates from her thumb to her shoulder. A drop of blood smears on the desk below her.

 Emma stares at the red smudge, exercising every scrap of self-control in her body to avoid a most unladylike slew of curses. She viciously bites her lip as the sharp pain slowly dulls to an ache.

 “I think that's enough for today,” she grits out softly, reaching for the dirty rag on the corner of the desk. Quickly cleaning the table, she realizes that the wound is a bit deeper than she first believed. Each throb of her thumb is accompanied by more blood. This may need sutures.

 She knows exactly who to see.

 “Nikola?” she calls, strangely captivated by the sight of her injury.

 There's a slight clatter of something being dropped. “Yes, Emma?” he replies, the wall between them failing to muffle his surprise.

 “Is it alright with you if I take the rest of the day off? I think I've done all I can,” she elaborates distractedly. The blood has finally welled up and is threatening to spill on her trousers.

 Her _nice_ trousers.

 Jumping into action, she hurriedly opens a drawer and pulls out a spotless blue handkerchief, pressing it against her thumb just as a droplet begins to fall. She breathes a sigh of relief. She always hated ruining a good pair of pants.

 It takes her a few moments to realize Nikola responded.

 “I'm sorry?” she asks loudly, tying a crude knot with the ends of the cloth and her teeth.

 “Of course!” he repeats louder.

 “Thanks!” she calls back, grabbing her leather-bound notebook.

 Getting up quickly, she leaves the lab and steps into the eerily still air. Not a breath of wind seems willing to cool her down. The people she passes look as uncomfortable as she feels. She even sees a man who seems to have completely sweat through his gray suit. Carriages clomp by on the road, with occupants visibly fanning themselves.

 The only person looking particularly pleased is a man approaching in an automobile. Emma's not sure if he's happy with the weather or just happy to be showing off his obvious wealth.

 “Oh, lovely weather! Indeed, indeed!” he calls out jovially. His outrageous purple top hat tips dangerously to the side as he passes and waves energetically. Emma balks at the display. He continues waving all the way to the intersection, where he swerves right abruptly.

 “That man must be absurdly rich,” she mutters once he's out of sight. The new combustible machines looked like so much fun. She would love to get her hands on one and figure it out. Too bad it would cost her ten years wages.

 Not that Nikola is stingy. He is more than accommodating. She works for what she earns, and she works hard. In only a year, she has been able to rent an apartment fairly close to the center of the city. Sure, her landlady is a bitch, but it has a great view.

 As Emma walks towards her destination, the passers-by slowly shifts from ladies and businessmen to hunched women and work-weary men. The air tastes like dust and smells of smoke.

 She continues into the grittier part of the city until she sees the familiar sign: Greater Queens Workhouse for Paupers. Emma usually just called it the 'House.' The whole title was an unnecessary mouthful, considering it was neither great nor in Queens.

 In fact it's actually falling apart, despite the owner's- Mr. Gold- insistence that is the forefront in tackling the poverty in the newly-enlarged New York City. The windows are cracked and leaky, and the interior looks like it recently was put through a fire.

 Emma walks past the statuesque lions that Mr. Gold loves with trepidation. None of the windows are lit up quite yet, as Gold has a strict guideline on light use. It creates dark holes in the flat prison-like facade, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

 She walks up to the door, knocking with her right hand.

 The door opens slightly and a grizzled face pops out.

 “Yes?” the old man asks.

 “Good afternoon, sir.” Emma replies, plastering a smile on her face.

 “What do you want?” he snaps. His face is drawn into a frown.

 “I was hoping to see my friend Mary-Margaret Blanchard.”

 “Who?” the man all but shouts.

 “Miss Blanchard. She's the school teacher for the children,” Emma clarifies loudly.

 “Oh!” the man harrumphs, opening the door fully, “Come in then.”

 Murmuring a thank you, she quickly sidesteps and walks into the building.

 The inside is just as bleak as the outside, only with the added bonus of exhausted people milling about like the undead. Emma hurries by the poor souls, following the familiar path to the small classroom on the east end.

 As soon as she reaches the door, it bursts open. A small boy in with a ratty flat cap barrels by, nearly taking her out.

“Excuse me, Miss, I am so sorry!” he stutters out in surprise.

“Henry!” a concerned voice calls. It's Mary Margaret. “Don't forget about the test tomorrow!”

 “Yes, Ma'am. Sorry, Ma'am.” He runs down the hall and out of sight.

 Emma turns to Mary Margaret, catching her amused sigh.

 “Are you students always so eager to flee?” she teases.

 Mary Margaret laughs, turning for Emma to follow her into her classroom. “That's Henry Smith. He's as precocious as he is obstinate. Every day after class he rushes off to the park near the bridge. He says he has a friend there he can't stand to keep waiting.”

 “A friend at the park?” Emma asks, walking into the room. Mary Margaret closes the door behind them for privacy, simultaneously robbing them of any hope of a breeze. Her classroom has a single window that refuses to open unless a certain caretaker assists.

  _His name is David and he is possibly the most handsome man alive._ Mary Margaret had dreamily told her months. She'd recounted the color of his eyes, their impossibly short conversations, and how they “had a connection surpassing that of any in this universe.” Emma had nearly laughed the poor brunette out of her flat at that last one.

 Mary Margaret waves off her concern. “Oh, it's nothing dangerous. His friend is of the four-legged variety.”

 Emma hums in understanding, hiding her hand behind her back as her friend turns around. Her left thumb has bled through part of the handkerchief, giving it an odd purple hue.

 “What brings you here on a Thursday, then?” Mary Margaret inquires, sharp eyes instantly flitting to her hidden hand. She does teach school children for a living, after all.

 “How's your sewing coming along?” she asks hesitantly. Emma smiles sheepishly as brunettes eyes narrow.

 

* * *

 

“Ow!”

 “Don't be such a child.”

 “Easy for you to say. _Y_ _ou_ aren't the one being sewn up like some macabre dress.”

 “No, but I am the one doing said sewing. Credit me that, at least,” Mary Margaret pulls the thread, looping it around for the final crossover. “How in the world did you do this to yourself?”

 “Would you believe a knife came alive and attacked me?” Emma winces at the tugging sensation on her thumb. In absence of any pain killers, Emma had been forced to shove her hand on top of ice, leaving her with a bloody, cold thumb.

 Mary Margaret smirks slightly. “Don't tell me you were daydreaming again.”

 “You've been talking to Ruby!” Emma accuses, heat rising in her cheeks. She fidgets angrily on the desk she's sitting atop of, mentally figuring out how to get Ruby back.

 “I'm always talking to Ruby. I'm a teacher, not a nun,” the brunette responds, finishing up the suture.

 Emma makes a face at that. “She can't keep her mouth shut.”

 “Don't get to worked up about it, honey. She means well,” Mary Margaret assures her, patting her leg. She walks over to her desk, pulling out a cotton strip and some tape.

 “Now, really,” she continues when she returns, taking Emma's left hand in her own. She carefully begins to wrap the digit. “How was meeting Killian? I want to hear it from you.”

 “Disappointing. Annoying. Uncomfortable. Any combination of the three works.”

 Mary Margaret winces sympathetically. “I'm sorry. The way you spoke of him he seemed like a charming man.”

 “The only charming thing about him was his appearance,” Emma replies as Mary Margaret tapes up the cloth, holding back a smile.

 It's then that Emma notices the bounce in Mary Margaret's... well, everything. She's practically bouncing in place.

 “You're awfully cheery,” Emma comments.

 Mary Margaret's smile appears. “Am I?”

 They sit in silence for a moment. Emma has to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

 “Well? Are you going to tell me why?”

 The smile morphs into a large grin. “Do you remember the handsome groundskeeper I told you about?”

 “Sure. David. Tall, broad shoulders, charming smile,” she replies.

 “Yes, him.” the brunette hesitates for a moment, “He asked me to the dance on Saturday evening! The one at the hall across from the library!” Mary Margaret exclaims enthusiastically.

 “Really!? That's excellent!” Emma feigns surprise. David had actually approached her the last time she had visited. He'd stuttered his way around asking for advice until Emma had shown mercy and revealed the longing looks were going both ways.

 “I simply must tell you about it! It was Tuesday, and I had just asked him to open that blasted window...” she begins, eyes absolutely sparkling.

 As her best friend fawns over the groundskeeper, Emma feels a hole in her chest. Mary Margaret's smile- that absolute contentment that radiates from her every pore- is incredible.

 Her smile falters slightly, but the petite brunette barrels on, oblivious to her inner distress.

 The emptiness in her chest is familiar. She's felt it from the day she was born- a dark cloud that swirls around her. It aches in her bones.

  _Loneliness._

 

* * *

 

Hours later she's flitting around her apartment, listening to the tinny brass of Buddy Bolden warbling from her old second-hand phonograph. Tesla had given the player to her upon its arrival from Thomas Edison's office. Their silent feud had furnished much of her living room.

 The air has cooled a bit, but it's hot enough to have Emma restless. She's reread her only novel- a print of _An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge-_ enough times to recite entire passages. She'd cleaned her bedroom, tidied her kitchen, and even attempted to rearrange her living room, much to her landlady's exasperation.

 A harsh ring suddenly cuts through the music. Emma walks over to the phonograph, shutting it off.

 The ring sounds again.

 “A call!” Emma says excitedly, rushing to pick up the receiver. This her first personal telephone call. The equipment was another relic of the Edison-Tesla feud.

 Nikola had read the note attached to the telephone and shoved it toward Emma in disgust. Edison had apparently stated that Nikola was incapable of building one himself and that he was saving the Serb time and money buying him one.

 “Hello?” she calls into the mouthpiece. There's fuzz in reply.

 “Hello!” she repeats, louder.

 “H-lo? Em.. s-n?” a garbled voice replies.

 “Oh, damn you,” she mutters at the phone. She smacks the earpiece against the wall with a thunk. “Hello?”

 “Emma, is that you?” sounds from the speaker.

 “Yes, to whom am I speaking?”

 “It's Ruby!”

 “Ruby? I didn't know you had a telephone!” Emma exclaims.

 “Well, _I_ don't have a telephone. Granny bought one for the restaurant!” Ruby waits a breath before continuing, “You sound so different on this thing... Fuzzier.”

 A laugh bubbles, “So do you, Ruby. It's brand new technology. There's still stuff to work on. Bugs, you know?”

 “Bugs in a telephone?” Ruby repeats incredulously. “Should I be worried?”

 “No, I mean problems. Not actual bugs.”

 “Oh. Right.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to go to East Park for a concert?”

 “Sure, what time does it start?”

 “Five o'clock.”

 Emma glances at her pocket watch. Her eyebrows raise. “Ruby, it's four thirty.”

 “Yes, and?” She sighs, pinching her nose gently.

 “Ruby. East Park is a twenty minute walk from my apartment.”

 “Yes, and?” Ruby repeats.

 “...”

 “Emma, it will be fun! Think of the music and the people and the _men._ ” Ruby pleads.

 “...Fine.” Emma concedes.

 “Great! I'll see you there,” Emma can practically see Ruby subtly bouncing in excitement. “Also, bring the phonograph, I want a recording of the concert.”

 Emma glances at the golden player dubiously. “Ruby, it's large and heavy. It doesn't even play the flat records. I can't possibly-”

 “You're the best, Emma. Good-bye!” she cuts in, hanging up abruptly.

 “-expect me to carry...” Emma trails off, speaking to no one. She turns to the gramophone, pursing her lips in thought.

 “The things I do for love,” she mutters.

 

* * *

 

“Emma! Finally. It's five fifteen,” Ruby shouts, pushing past the crowd to get close to Emma.

 Her back is aching, the sling she created digging into her shoulders. The whole walk the horn bumped into the back of her head. It's left her with a sore skull. At least the weather has cooled. 

“Are you serious right now?” she pants, glaring. She rests her hands on her hips. The movement jostles the phonograph, knocking it into the back of her head.

 “MY GOD!” she shouts into the air. A few spectators jump in surprise. She mumbles an apology.

 Ruby, thankfully, picks up on her sour mood. Her hands are up in a gesture of surrender. “I'm teasing! I'm sorry. Do you need help setting this up?”

 “Yes, please,” Emma grits out, massaging the back of her head. Ruby moves behind her, delicately lifting the phonograph from its cradle.

 “Do you have a cylinder?” Ruby asks, rustling the sling.

 “Here,” Emma hands the satchel to the brunette with one hand, using the other to untie the sling's knot.

 Ruby rummages through the satchel. She makes faces at the different items she sees.

 “Why do you have so many screwdrivers?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

 “Lab assistant,” Emma answers, stretching her arm. It pulls on her back, making her groan in pain. A smirk appears on Ruby's face.

 Emma stops stretching at the sight of it. “What?”

 “Nothing,” Ruby snickers. “Aha!” She exclaims, hoisting the fresh wax cylinder up, “Now, make this thing work.”

 “I'm not your lackey,” Emma grumbles, plopping down next to the phonograph. “Hand it to me.”

 Ruby acquiesces, watching her work with mild interest. The brunette doesn't have the patience to work with technology, she's more interested in the end results. Emma hears a crunch and looks over to see Ruby eating an apple.

 “Is that mine?” she cries.

 “Maybe,” the brunette mumbles past a mouthful.

 Emma sighs, more out of annoyance than anger. Ruby is too adorable for her to be truly mad. The brunette abuses this to no end.

 As Emma is removing the Buddy Bolden cylinder, she sees Ruby suddenly stand. “Handsome fellow, right behind you!” she whispers to Emma.

 “Hello,” she announces, “Have you come to see the toys?”

 The question is dripping with double entendre.

 “Yes, actually,” a smooth voice replies, either unaware or ignoring Ruby's attempt. “I was just telling my betrothed how much I wanted a phonograph.”

 “Not for sale,” Emma grunts. She pops in the cylinder, sets the pin, and tightens the crank.

 “I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't trying to buy it,” the man retreats. “I am just fascinated with the technology. I believe I recognize this model. It's Edison, no?”

 “Yeah,” Emma gathers the sling and Bolden cylinder, stuffing them into her satchel. “My boss gave it to me.”

 “Generous man,” the guy responds, sounding impressed.

 She slings the strap over her shoulder, standing to face the man. His pinstriped suit screams money, but he looks nice enough with light brown hair and a gentle smile. Looking past him to his haughtily dressed companion-

  _Oh god._

 “You!” she gasps. Standing next to the man is the surly patent officer. She looks more upset to see Emma than the blonde thought possible.

 “Miss Swan,” Regina says tersely. Her lips are pursued in displeasure.

 “You know Regina?” the guys interjects, eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

 “We have met, but only briefly,” Regina replies for her.

 “Oh? Do tell,” he requests, clasping his hands and glancing in between the two women. Regina's face is tight with a small grimace.

 “Daniel, please-”

 “Through the patent office actually,” Emma interrupts. “Your betrothed was quite the conversationalist. And somehow she forgot to mention you.”

 Daniel fakes a scandalized gasp. “Regina!”

 “Come now, Daniel, we hardly even-” the brunette protests weakly.

 “Sure enough. I was dropping off some patents and she was telling me how _wonderful_ her work was. We must have talked for half an hour before I realized I was due back at the lab.” 

Regina's eyes narrow into slits as Daniel focuses on Emma. It's an expression that would've sent her scuttling away if it weren't for Operation Labrador. Emma gulps, breaking eye contact with Regina in favor of looking at Daniel. He looks like an eager puppy, eyes wide and head cocked to the side.

 “You were dropping off patents,” he repeats in surprise. “Are you an inventor?”

 “Not just yet. I'm currently working as a lab assistant,” she explains.

 “Don't be shy, Emma. Tell him who you work for,” Ruby pipes up for the first time. Her eyes are gleaming as she observes the exchange. She's entirely too cheery for Emma's comfort.

 “Yes, do tell us,” Regina drawls, “Some second rate start up?”

 “I must have forgotten to tell you, Regina,” there's a visible flinch at the use of her first name, “I work for Nikola Tesla. Surely you've gone over the patent now?”

 Emma ignores Daniel's gasp to watch the changes of Regina's face. The woman has an incredible poker face, but the twitch of her eyebrows is enough to satisfy Emma.

  _Who's second rate now?_

 “Tesla! My goodness, that's absolutely wonderful! You must tell me about him!” Daniel exclaims, looking like a puppy being shown a bone.

 Emma indulges him, regaling him with new inventions and Nikola's unorthodox personality. All the while, she observes Regina's reactions to her tales. The brunette puts on a facade of indifference, sniping any opportunity she gets. It frustrates Emma to no end.

She's wrapping up a story about one of Nikola's failed attempts to create a hydraulic chair when the band announces their set. It looked like there was going to be a lot of James Thorton.

 “Daniel,” Regina snips, “We should go to our seats.”

 “Yes, of course,” he concedes, looking disappointed. Regina snakes her arm around his. They turn to walk away.

 Emma glances next to her, finding that Ruby left sometime during their discussion.

 “Guess I'll record this thing by myself then,” she grumbles.

 “Emma?”

 She turns toward the call. The couple hasn't left yet. Regina looks furious at that fact. “Yes?”

 “Would you do me the honor of having dinner with us this Saturday? I simply _must_ hear more of your work,” he implores. Regina's eyes cloud over, mouth twisting in a scowl.

 Emma fails to suppress a smirk, hoping it comes off as friendly rather than superior.

 “I'd love to.”

 


End file.
